


This is a Yellow Line Train to Huntington Station

by chanderson



Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Bottom George, Coming In Pants, Grinding, Implied/Referenced Character Death, M/M, Older Man/Younger Man, Politics, Public Transportation, Washington D.C.
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-05
Updated: 2017-09-05
Packaged: 2018-12-24 09:31:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,562
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12009918
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chanderson/pseuds/chanderson
Summary: Alex catches the bus home and tries to stop thinking about the mysterious stranger who got off at the wrong Metro stop.He keeps up a steady round of fucking and sucking, always trying not to think about him, and always failing. He comes buried deep inside all these pretty, handsome boys thinking about a man he doesn’t even know. A man he knows only in theory.





	This is a Yellow Line Train to Huntington Station

**Author's Note:**

> This is a random ass one shot I've had in my Ham folder (aka my fic folder) on my computer for like a month and I just remembered it. There's like no plot at all. 
> 
> The probability of seeing the same person on the metro like this is incredibly unlikely. Just go with it, y'all.
> 
> I miss D.C. so much.
> 
> Enjoy this random shit.

Alex hikes his backpack up higher on his back and reaches up to wipe away the sweat beading on his forehead. The sidewalk is busy and the streets are packed with cars as everyone heads home, streaming out of different government buildings in their slightly rumpled dress clothes and heavy bags stuffed full of work they’ll have to do over the weekend. The sun is beating down mercilessly and practically everyone is drenched in sweat. The only reason Alex still has his suit jacket on is because he’s conscious of the epic pit stains plainly visible on his blue button down underneath. 

He finally reaches Capitol South Station and awkwardly shuffles onto the escalator, pressed against a guy with slicked up, shiny hair and an a thousand dollar smile. His purple House of Representatives staff ID badge is still clipped to his jacket, a clear show of pretentious dominance. Alex rolls his eyes. The only people who walk to and from work in their ID badges are the interns. 

As they all descend into the metro station, the sun is thankfully blocked out and the cool air of the underground washes over everyone like a blessing from God Almighty himself. Alex trudges off the escalator and waits patiently behind a group of tourists trying to fish out their SmartTrip cards to tap in at the faregate. 

The platform is packed, so Alex shoulders his way through toward the front of the throng of people. In D.C., it’s easy to tell who works for the government, who’s a regular, private-sector citizen, and who’s a hopelessly confused tourist. The people fresh out of Rayburn or Russell all stand with their backs straight, cocky by nature. The men stand with their legs wide, asserting dominance. They _look_ important. Like they belong. Like they fucking own the place. The women glance around with an air of detached indifference, like they’re too good to stand down here among the _regular_ people. The private sector guys are more nonchalant. They don't need to assert dominance because they’ve got money, and money is power. They flick their wrists up to check the time on their shiny, expensive Rolexes and adjust the cuffs of their Italian, hand-tailored suits—subtle ways to show that they could buy this metro station if they wanted to. Then, last and, sadly, least, are the tourists. They’re in frumpy clothes, stinking of sweat and cheap, food truck nachos, and they stand around with the metro map clutched in their fists, looking around uncertainly like they just know they’re about to get on the wrong train and fuck up their plans. They’re skittish and hop out of people’s way, deferring to the real Washingtonians. 

It’s such bullshit. 

The lights on the platform start flashing and people yank their kids back as the train approaches, the headlights beaming out of the tunnel like the eyes of a beast. Alex counts one, two three, four cars and shuffles forward as the train starts to roll to a stop, confirms that yes this is the blue line train to Franconia-Springfield to some tourist who hesitantly taps his shoulder, and surges onto the train as soon as the people exiting get off. He always gets on the fourth car of the train. He doesn’t know why; it’s just a habit, he supposes. 

Try as he might, he’s not fast enough to nab a seat, so he settles on standing and holding onto a rail, uncomfortably pressed against some woman’s ass. Somewhere else in the car, a baby starts screaming and everyone rolls their eyes. Some white guy in culturally appropriated dreds has his music playing out loud, a gangster rap song about drugs and fucking some sweet, sweet pussy. As the train lurches to a start, Alex’s old buddy from the escalator, gelled-hair-badge-guy, stumbles into him and steps on his toe. Alex hisses and grits his teeth. Rush hour on the metro is such bullshit. And, as if to add insult to injury, they hike up the prices. What the fuck is that, anyway? 

Alex closes his eyes and tries to ignore the steady headache building at the base of his skull. It was a long day at work running back and forth through the tunnels between Rayburn and the Capitol in a desperate attempt to help his boss, Representative Gouverneur Morris, whip votes. Sometimes working for the Majority Whip is fun. Sometimes it sucks. 

Today was somewhere in between. 

He shifts his weight and tries to alleviate the ache in his feet, wishing he’d brought his tennis shoes with him to change into for the ride home. Luckily, like always, the further they go, the less people there are on the train. When they get to the Foggy Bottom stop, people leave the train in a stampede, and Alex is able to slip into a seat. He almost groans when his ass hits the padded, vinyl cushion. 

The commute to and from work is a bit of a drawn out affair, seeing as he lives all the way out in Alexandria, but it’s worth it for the cheaper property taxes. He shares a modest, four bedroom apartment with some friends from college who also work in D.C. There’s John Laurens who works at the Progressive Policy Institute, Gilbert Lafayette who works at the French Embassy, and Hercules Mulligan who Alex is pretty sure works for the CIA, though he won’t say for sure. Maybe one day Alex will be able to afford to live in D.C., but for now Alexandria will have to do. 

Alex’s eyes are starting to drift closed, lulled by the comforting sounds of the metro rattling on the tracks, but he rouses himself and blinks to keep himself awake. Only three more stops, he reminds himself. Then he can transfer to the yellow line and go on his merry way. 

Like always, King Street Station on the Huntington yellow line side isn’t too crowded. Most everyone has cleared out by now, and Alex welcomes the reprieve from the feeling of being engulfed in a crowd. 

When he gets on the yellow line train, the first thing he notices is that it’s one of the nice, new trains. The second thing he notices is the guy sitting with his head leaning against the window. He’s staring forlornly out at the platform, his handsome face creased and tired looking. He’s got dark, thick eyebrows drawn down over his eyes, wrinkling his forehead. His suit, however, looks pristine and expensive. Private sector, Alex decides. Maybe a lawyer or a businessman. Probably. 

Alex takes a seat across the aisle from him, taking the aisle seat since the car is practically empty. He tries not to watch as suit guy sits up and sighs loudly through his nose. He reaches up with long, thick fingers to rub tiredly at his eyes, and Alex sits, mesmerized. 

As if he can feel the eyes on him, suit guy looks over and frowns. Alex quickly averts his gaze and stares ahead, half-listening to the automated woman’s voice coming over the speakers to announce that the doors are closing. 

The train stops briefly at Eisenhower Avenue, and Alex and the guy are now the only ones left on the train. The automated voice comes over the loud speaker again to inform them that Huntington will be the last stop on the line. Alex stares out the window as the trees and modest buildings flash by outside the aboveground rail. He chances another look at suit guy and watches him wearily rub his eyes again. 

All too soon, the train is rolling into Huntington and the two of them are straggling off. Alex turns to go down the stairs so he can tap out, but stops as he watches the guy turn and walk directly to the other side of the platform to wait for the train heading back toward Fort Totten, the opposite way. Alex frowns, hovering by the top of the stairs, his hand still shoved inside his bag to root around for his SmartTrip card. 

He doesn’t know why he cares, but he hesitantly walks over to stand awkwardly by the guy, putting a respectable amount of space between them. Alex clears his throat and adjusts his tie, anything to occupy his hands.

“Miss your stop?” Alex asks lightly, a little ruefully to show that he’s politely commiserating with him. The guy’s lips lift into the ghost of a half-hearted smile and he shrugs. 

“Something like that.” 

He leaves it at that and Alex nods, embarrassment coiling in his stomach. “Well, uh, good luck,” he says lamely. The guys laughs hollowly and tips his head. 

“Thanks.” 

Alex turns and hurries down the stairs, hunching his shoulders. 

“Jesus fucking Christ,” he mutters to himself. “Why am I such a weirdo.” 

He catches the bus home and tries to stop thinking about the handsome stranger who got off at the wrong stop. Weird that he didn’t get off earlier. He could’ve gotten off at Eisenhower Avenue. Of course, maybe that was the stop he meant to get off at. 

Alex doesn’t know why he cares, but he does. It’s bothering him. How casual the guy was about it. His cryptic answer: 

_“Something like that.”_

What does it mean? 

Alex shakes his head as he changes out of his suit and goes into the living room, plopping down on the couch next to John. He’s currently playing Xbox, some first person shooter game that Alex sucks at. He pauses the game and smiles. 

“Hey man,” John greets him. “Good day? I saw that y’all passed the medicaid expansion pack.” Alex nods and digs his phone out of the pocket of his sweatpants. 

“Yeah, it was fun. Long as fuck, but still fun.” 

“We were watching it in the office on CSpan. Morris happy about it?” John turns the Xbox off and tucks one of his legs underneath himself. Alex absently scrolls through his Twitter feed and nods. 

“Yeah. He joked about popping some champagne. I wish we actually could. Sometimes working on the Hill makes me want to drink like an alcoholic suburban mom.” 

John laughs and shoves Alex’s shoulder. “You’re the worst.” 

“You thought it was funny, Mr. PC Culture.” 

“Whatever,” John mutters, a smile on his face letting Alex know that he’s not actually mad. He shifts his weight and scratches his cheek. “Laf and Herc are both out tonight. You wanna do something? I could definitely be down for some margaritas.” Alex runs a hand through his lank hair, greasy and gross from a day of anxiously running his hands through it and sweating his ass off. He shrugs and clicks out of Twitter. 

“I might just stay in tonight. I’m not feeling that great.” John nods, eyebrows furrowed in concern. 

“Alright, that’s fine. Let me know if you need anything.” 

Alex retreats to his room with a promise that he’ll let John know if he starts feeling sick and flops down on his bed, rolling onto his side in contentment. It’s only a little after seven, but he could easily fall asleep already. He contemplates doing just that, but eventually rouses himself enough to eat a peanut butter and jelly sandwich for dinner and take a quick shower. He’s asleep by nine. 

\---

His life continues on in relative monotony. Commutes to work, work his ass off as a Legislative Assistant, and commutes home. Sometimes he goes out on Friday and Saturday, sometimes he doesn’t. He hangs with his friends after work, cooks dinner with them and watches movies to unwind after hectic days working for the United States government. He fucks his usual lineup of hookups whenever he’s horny enough to need to. There’s Ben, a total sweetheart from the FBI; Tom, a total Republican asshole from Senator Richard Henry Lee’s office; and Jemmy, a total Republican genius from the Chamber of Commerce. 

It’s all the same, all the time. Day after day. And sure, the work is rewarding, but sometimes it gets a little old. 

Sometimes _life_ gets a little old.

That is, until he sees suit guy again. 

It’s on the yellow line to Huntington. The fourth car. Alex is so shocked to see him again— _what are the fucking odds?_ —that he almost trips getting into a seat. If he notices, suit guy doesn’t say anything.

Alex forces himself to keep his eyes trained on the train in front of him, studying a stain in the worn-thin carpet, but he can’t help but look suspiciously over at suit guy when he doesn’t get off at Eisenhower Avenue. He narrows his eyes and shifts his weight. 

“Did you miss your stop again?” he asks. The guy startles and looks over, eyebrows furrowed until he must recognize Alex. His forehead smooths and Alex gets his first good look at him. He’s handsome in an unconventional way. Big, broad shoulders and powerful arms and legs. Alex swallows, his mouth suddenly bone dry. Suit guy eyes him warily before shrugging. 

“Not exactly,” he says, offering no further explanation. Alex frowns and hugs his backpack to his chest, giving his arms somewhere to rest. 

“What do you mean?” Suit guy shrugs and tugs on his tie. 

“I just like to ride.” Alex looks at him dumbly and he sighs. “I get on and take the line to the end and then go back,” he explains. “It’s… It gives me something to do.” Alex stares incredulously and huffs a laugh. 

“You can’t be serious. That’s gotta cost you a fortune.” 

Suit guy shrugs and smiles, though it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. Alex wants to ask him more, but then the train is stopping and the doors are sliding open. He reluctantly gets out, following suit guy onto the platform. “So you’re taking the train back now?” he asks. Suit guy turns and nods. 

“Yep,” he says simply. Alex shakes his head and huffs another laugh. 

“You’re very interesting…?”

“George.” 

Alex nods and smiles. 

“Well, then, George. Have fun on your joy ride.” George’s mouth quirks up into a more genuine smile and he crosses his arms. 

“I don’t get to know your name?” he asks, his tone almost playful, but not quite. Alex smirks and shrugs. 

“Alexander, but I go by Alex.” George nods thoughtfully and purses his lips.

“Nice to meet you, Alexander-but-I-go-by-Alex.” 

Alex’s face breaks into a grin and his laugh echoes off the walls of the station. George’s expression is a little less stormy now and his eyes crinkle at the edges. Alex shakes his head, about to shoot back with some witty remark, when he hears the bus screeching and shuddering to a halt downstairs and he gives George an apologetic smile. 

“That’s my bus. I gotta go. It was, uh, nice to meet you,” he says, already on his way hurrying down the stairs. George nods and disappears from view as Alex rushes through the faregate and runs like a madman to the bus. 

He thinks about George the whole way home. 

\---

Alex decides to go out Friday, lets John drag him to a bar in town after work for happy hour. He’s pleasantly buzzed by eight and drunk off his ass by nine. He ends up drunk texting Ben and they go back to his bankrolled apartment in Foggy Bottom. Alex presses Ben up against a wall, his head resting right next to some abstract painting of the FBI building. It rattles when Ben slams his fist into the wall after Alex deep throats him. 

Alex fucks Ben into his mattress, pounding into him so hard that he keeps jolting out of place. Ben fucking loves it, begs for Alex to fuck him harder. Alex happily obliges, gives Ben his all, snarling about how pretty and sweet Ben is for taking his cock like this.

As they fuck, Alex has to force himself to focus on Ben and his slender, lean body. His blond hair and creamy skin. His blue eyes and pinks lips. 

As they fuck, Alex has to try very hard not to think about powerful thighs and bulky muscles rippling under tawny skin. Alex tries very, very hard to stare into Ben’s eyes and only see blue, but he inevitably pictures warm, chocolatey brown.

When Alex comes, he imagines it’s George. The stranger from the Huntington yellow line. 

Afterward, he cleans himself up and tells Ben that he needs to go home, that he’s too drunk and wants to be home. It’s not a lie per-say. Alex is way too fucking drunk now that he thinks about it. He can feel the alcohol sloshing in his stomach and has to suck in several lungfuls of fresh air once he gets outside on the street. 

He makes it to the Foggy Bottom station and attempts to put on an air of normalcy as he goes through the faregate and waits for the train, but he knows that he must reek of alcohol and sex. 

He’s a little ashamed, but not much. A guy’s got to live a little sometimes. 

The train ride is long and more than a little nauseating, but Alex manages to keep it together. He gets off at King Street and heads over to wait for the yellow line. 

He’s half expecting to see George sitting there with his sad eyes and handsome smile, but the car is empty. He wonders if he’ll ever get to see George again.

Maybe. 

\---

The weeks pass by, more of the same. 

Morris has some major legislative victories that Alex helps coordinate and gets no recognition for; Hercules and Lafayette start dating, which makes their living situation a little awkward, but they all soon fall into a new routine; Alex fucks Ben and Tom and Jemmy like he always does, but it’s all suddenly not enough for him. Not what he wants. Not what he needs. 

But it’s what he has, so he keeps up a steady round of fucking and sucking, always trying not to think about George, and always failing. He comes buried deep inside all these pretty, handsome boys thinking about a man he doesn’t even know. A man he knows only in theory. 

Alex imagines what George must be like, what he likes and dislikes, what he sounds like. He builds up an entire fantasy surrounding George who rides the subway because it’s something to do. Alex likes to think that George would be a loving and vulnerable lover, trusting and giving. Eager to fuck or be fucked. Beautiful. Powerful. Intense. Volatile. 

He comes up with reasons that George likes to ride the metro for fun. Tries to parse through such an interesting hobby, if it can even be considered a hobby. Maybe he’s just bored. Maybe he’s so rich that he doesn’t know what else to do with his money. Maybe he’s filling the time that someone used to occupy for him. 

Alex thinks about George often.

But Alex doesn’t see him again. He looks every day and tries to ignore the sinking feeling he gets in his stomach when he doesn’t see George leaning his head against the window. 

Except one day he’s there, and Alex almost doesn’t believe it’s real. 

But it is real, and Alex sits right next to George. This close, Alex can see the shadow of salt-and-pepper stubble on his chin and smell his oaky cologne. It’s intoxicating. 

George looks a little surprised, obviously unaccustomed to companions on his little rides, but when he recognizes Alex he nods in greeting.

“Hello Alexander-but-I-go-by-Alex,” he says, a ghost of a smile on his face. Alex smiles and tries to contain his excitement. 

“Hello George who rides the metro for fun.” 

They sit there smiling at each other before George coughs and turns to look out the window. Alex can see his reflection in the glass. His eyes are wide and sad. Alex clears his throat and stuffs his bag in between his legs, conscious of how short the ride is to Huntington. “George,” Alex begins, pausing to wet his dry lips. “Can I be frank?” George turns and gives him an uneasy look.

“About what?” he asks warily, his face guarded and carefully neutral. Alex swallows and looks away. 

“I, well, I’ve been… anxious to see you… again,” Alex finally finishes awkwardly. Then, after a beat of silence, “you intrigue me.”

George shifts his weight and makes a humming noise. “It bothers you that you don’t know why I ride the metro back and forth.” He sounds amused and Alex bristles indignantly. 

“No,” he says defensively, even though George is, of course, right. “I just—” Alex makes a frustrated noise as they roll into Huntington Station. They both get up and walk off the train and stand on the platform, looking at each other. The wind ruffles their clothes and blows Alex’s hair around his face. He swallows and shifts his weight back and forth. “Listen,” he says, grabbing George’s arm. “Instead of taking your ride back right now, would you like to get a drink or something? I usually go to the bars in D.C., but there are a few decent places around here.” 

George is silent, and Alex is about to try to play it off as a joke when George nods nonchalantly. 

“I could delay my ride for a few hours.” 

They hustle down to the bus, talking politely. Alex finds out that George is the partner in a law firm, Washington & Mason, with an old friend, coincidentally also named George. He also finds out that George lives in D.C. in Kalorama, which automatically lets Alex know that George is _rich_. The last things he finds out are that George was in the military and George is bisexual. 

Alex has to remind himself to _keep it cool_. He doesn’t even know if George is single. Though there’s no wedding ring, and George never mentions a girlfriend or a boyfriend. 

So he’s remaining cautiously hopeful. 

The bar Alex takes him to is a cozy one with a nice atmosphere. The music isn’t too loud, the patrons not too obnoxious, and the drinks nicely made. They slide into a comfortable booth in the back corner and Alex goes up to the bar, ordering them both a gin and tonic. When he gets back to the table, George is down to just his shirt sleeves and Alex admires the way his arm muscles look under the tighter, starch white material. He shakes his head and pushes the drink toward George.

“Gin and tonic,” he says as George gives it a whiff. He nods in thanks and takes a small sip. 

“So, Alex,” he says, leaning back in the booth. “Do you like working for a congressman?” Alex pulls a face and shrugs. 

“Some days I do. Other days I fucking hate it.” He shrugs and takes a sip of his drink, watching George over the rim. The drink is tart and he almost regrets ordering it, but in the end, all alcohol burns the same. George nods thoughtfully and smiles a closed-lip smile that makes Alex feel warm inside. Or maybe it’s just the alcohol warming him up. Either way.

As they drink, they fall into a comfortable conversation, inevitably discussing politics. After a few more drinks, George seems to loosen up a little. He’s more giggly, a little less serious and brooding. Alex, spurred on by the alcohol singing in his veins, leans over and lays a hand on George’s arm. “So,” he says, hating the slur in his voice. “Will you tell me why you ride the metro back-and-forth now?” 

He watches with poorly masked interest as a whirlwind of emotions flash in George’s eyes until he seems to finally settle on something akin to fear. Anxious might be a better word for it. His eyes flicker around apprehensively and he swallows, his Adam’s apple bobbing in his throat. 

“I don’t know if you want to know the answer,” he says cryptically. “It’s not fun.” His voice is just as slurred as Alex’s. Alex squeezes his arm and smiles reassuringly. 

“No, seriously, I wanna know. Please?” He pouts, poking his lips out in just the right way. It always works on guys, and George is no different. His eyes darken just a bit and he nods. Under the table, their legs are pressed together. 

“My wife died.” 

Alex blinks and sits up a little straighter.

“Oh, shit, I—uh—I’m sorry,” he says lamely, dropping his eyes to focus on his glass. George shrugs and smiles ruefully. 

“I just… I had to fill the time, so I started riding the metro. It was mind-numbing at first. I could just sit there and ride and not think about anything else. I don’t do it every day anymore, but some days are bad, you know? So I’ll ride and try not to think about my sad, empty house.” George shifts his weight and looks away as his eyes get glassy with unshed tears. Alex clears his throat and reaches over to squeeze George’s hand, presses his leg harder against George’s. A slight shift of pressure. 

“Was today a bad day?” he asks. George shrugs and nods in one motion. 

“Yes.” He turns back to look at Alex and smiles sadly. “But you made it much better. Thanks for this.” 

Alex can feel his face heating up, hopes the flush from the alcohol covers it up. “How long ago did she die?” he asks, quickly tacking on that George doesn’t have to tell him if he doesn’t want. George just shrugs and crunches on a piece of ice. 

“About 8 months ago,” he murmurs. “She had cancer, so it wasn’t a shock, but it was still… hard. It was really fucking hard.” George laughs sardonically and shrugs. “But what can you do about it. People die, shit happens, and life must go on.” Alex nods and finishes off the rest of his drink. 

“I lost my mom when I was a kid so I gotcha. Life fucking sucks.” Alex shrugs and fiddles with the salt shaker. The bar is starting to fill up as it gets later—suburban parents who are out on their first kid-less date in more than a year. It’s depressing. Suburban bliss is just a lie perpetuated by people who don’t realize they’re dead inside. Alex watches a man in a soft, pastel Vineyard Vines polo lead his Lilly Pulitzer, obnoxious-pattern clad wife over to the booth next to Alex and George, and Alex is suddenly hit with the need for fresh air. Air free of this sad little scene. This bar is more lame than he remembers. He leans forward and fixes George with a serious look. “You wanna get out of here?” he asks before he can overthink it. George’s eyes widen a bit before he nods. 

“Sure. Where do you wanna go?”

“My place?” Alex asks, again way ahead of his frontal lobe’s ability to regulate reason and self control. George looks unsure at first, opens and closes his mouth like a fish out of water, before he nods and grabs his phone off the sticky table. 

“Lets do it,” he says with an air of finality.

They stumble out of the bar and catch the bus to Alex’s place. En route, Alex takes the time to type out a message to his roommate groupchat. 

_Bringing a guy over. You guys home?_

John is the first to respond and it almost makes Alex laugh out loud. 

_I am, but I won’t be for long. I’ll go over to Martha’s. Have fun man! ;)_

George is staring out the window, seemingly lost in thought, and Alex hesitantly reaches over to lay his hand on George’s thigh, shivering at how thick they are. He wonders how it would feel to stick his head in between those thighs for a few hours. George’s breath hitches when Alex slides his hand up a little, testing the waters. 

“I’m okay now. After my wife,” he says gruffly. “Just so you know.” Alex squeezes his thigh and moves it up just a little bit higher, ignoring the distasteful look that the old lady with blue-tinted hair in the accessible seating gives him. Fuck her. 

“Yeah?” he asks eagerly, eyeing the unmistakable beginnings of an erection tenting George’s wool slacks.

George turns to him and gives him a hungry once over, his eyes dark with lust, almost completely black. He subconsciously licks his lips and nods. When he speaks, he sounds wrecked. 

“Yeah. Definitely.” 

\---

True to his word, John isn’t there when they stagger through the door. Alex grabs George’s hand and pulls him through the messy living room, telling him to ignore all the shit lying around. Blames the mess on his roommates. 

He hastily tries to clean his own room up a bit, shoving clothes into the closet even as George starts to get undressed. When George is down to his boxers, Alex stops and stands there staring at him, taking in the thick bulge in his small boxer briefs. 

“Damn.” 

George grins, the biggest Alex has ever seen him smile, and reaches out to loosen Alex’s tie. “Let me see you,” he murmurs, his voice as smooth as expensive bourbon. Alex quickly complies, batting George’s clumsy fingers away and practically ripping his shirt off. 

They unceremoniously land on the bed and it creaks underneath them, but neither of them pause in their movements. They’re all over each other: Grabbing, tugging, pulling. Alex slings his leg over George’s torso and straddles him, draping himself over George’s broad, strong chest. He can already feel sweat starting to percolate on his forehead and he reaches up to push his hair out of his face.

When George finally kisses him, it’s sweeter than he’d like. George reaches up with one strong hand to cup his face, holding him in place, so Alex bites George’s bottom lip and tugs at it, eliciting a rumbling moan deep in George’s throat. Alex pulls away and kisses George’s jaw. 

“Tell me what you want,” he whispers, punctuating his words with an open-mouthed kiss pressed to George’s pulse point, his stubble rough against Alex’s lips. “What do you like?” Alex grinds down on George, grinning when George pushes his hips up and whines. It’s too fucking real: The bulky feeling of George’s erection poking the inside of Alex's thigh, the sound of their boxers sliding over each other. George reaches up to grab Alex’s shoulders, his thick fingers digging divots into Alex’s smooth, olive skin.

“Doesn’t matter,” he pants. Alex smirks and grinds down on George again, his hips moving in a slow circle. George’s mouth goes slack and his eyes slide shut with a soft whimper. 

“Looks like you could come just like this,” Alex teases, a little surprised at the response he gets from that. George gasps and pushes his hips up, chasing the friction, letting out a low whine that makes Alex’s cock twitch. Alex grins wide and arches an eyebrow. “Do you want that, George?” he whispers before sucking on George’s earlobe. George keeps rubbing himself against Alex and panting, his eyes squeezed shut. 

Alex releases the earlobe with a pop and rubs George’s chest, raking his fingers through the sparse, dark hair there before tweaking a nipple. Rolling first one, then the other between his fingers. George writhes underneath him and Alex smirks. “You want to get yourself off in your boxers grinding against me like a horny little boy, George?” George’s hips jerk up and he arches his back.

“Yes,” he breathes. “Please.” 

Alex sucks a bruise into George’s neck, down low where his collar will cover it and grinds down again. “Alright then,” he says, his own voice noticeably throatier, husky and thick with want. “Let me see you come like a good boy, George.”

“Oh my God,” George gasps. His hips cant up as he lets out a desperate little gasp, and Alex can feel him shaking underneath him, his whole body shuddering like a freight train. 

All it takes is a few more thrusts upward and George is coming with a grunt, a dark wet spot rapidly spreading across the front of his boxers. 

George lays there sprawled out underneath Alex, boneless and fucked out. He blinks sleepily and reaches up to stroke Alex’s cheek. 

“Do you want me to…” He motions to the bulge in Alex’s boxers, but Alex just shakes his head. Watching George get himself off was more than enough. 

Alex quickly shoves his own boxers down and starts to stroke himself off, spreading the precum pearling at his tip down the length of his shaft. He fucks his own grip fast and dirty, gasping when George reaches up to pinch a nipple. 

“Come on Alex,” he whispers. “Let me see you come for me.” 

And that’s all it takes. 

Alex gasps and comes hard, his hot cum splattering George’s still heaving chest and stomach. Alex carefully jacks himself until he’s finished and tucks himself back into his boxers. George is staring up at Alex with a lazy smile on his face. 

They stay there staring at each other for several long seconds.

“Damn,” Alex finally says emphatically as he gingerly climbs off George and collapses down on the bed. Beside him, George laughs and snorts. 

“Damn,” he echoes. 

**Author's Note:**

> Like I said, idfk what this is. Just another excuse for me to obsess over bottom George. 
> 
> Comments are super cool and appreciated.


End file.
